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I trail my gaze over the walls to keep from having to look at her. To keep from showing the tears in my eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“She didn’t want me to. She thought it was better this way. Better for you, anyway. She, on the other hand? Didn’t fare so well.” Her voice cracks at the end, and it begins to make sense to me why Aunt Midge has always been so adamant, so uncompromising, when it comes to my mother.
“Who is he?”
Hand still trembling, she sets the cigarette to her lips, cheeks caving with a long drag, and she shakes her head. “I made a promise, Isa. She made me swear never to tell you.”
“Please. I have to know.”
Still shaking her head, she lowers her gaze from mine.
“You’ve kept every promise to her, Aunt Midge. Every single one. What does it matter now? She’s dead!”
“It matters now, more than ever.”
“Please. I’m begging you.”
Silence hangs on the air between us, my impatience growing stronger with each ticking second.
“Why would she bring me back here? Don’t you think that’s a little stupid of her?”
“She didn’t have a choice. Believe me, she wouldn’t have.”
“So, why did she, if it’s so dangerous?”
Brows pinching together, she looks up at me as if she can’t believe I’d ask such a thing. “You honestly don’t remember anything?”
“About what?”
Breathing a sigh, she shakes her head. “You’re asking me to open too many cans at once, Isa.”
“And you’re still holding all the worms. Give me something. Anything. I’ve spent my whole life believing my mother was a piece-of-shit junkie, and you’re trying to tell me she’s not. I need to know what made her come back here. What made her risk bringing me back to the man who wanted to destroy me.”
“Does Uncle George ring a bell?”
No sooner do the words pass her lips than they unlock thoughts inside my head, images, like a skeleton key.
A child holding a glowing heart. Darkness all around. The child’s face practically glowing. It’s sad eyes. Gentle hands. A red heart. Deep breaths. Red. Everywhere.
My mind falls into a trance, pulling me into the memory. “I called him Uncle George. He was … Aunt Tessa’s husband.”
“She wasn’t really your aunt. She watched you when your ma had to work, or when she went out. An older woman who lived in the neighborhood. Your mom trusted her.”
“I woke up in the middle of the night. Somebody was whispering in my ear. I saw a picture of a child on the wall … holding a glowing heart.” The memories arrive faster, more vivid, and I shake my head. “No, not a child. It’s a man. Jesus, maybe?”
“Yes, Jesus’s Sacred Heart. Your mother told me she was very religious. Keep going.”
“He told me … to relax. That my mom wasn’t coming to pick me up. That it was just me and Uncle George hanging out.” A coldness fills my chest, the crystal branches of fear crawling out from somewhere deep inside my gut. “He put his hand … on my stomach. And down my pants.” I screw my eyes shut, as if doing so can block out the memory that continues to play behind my lids. “I screamed, and he told me that if anyone heard me, he’d have to hurt them. I remember the pain. So much pain that I blacked out from it.” I exhale a shaky breath, and open my eyes to find Aunt Midge staring back at me with more tears in her eyes. “When I woke up, there was blood everywhere. So much blood. And my mom, she was there, and she picked me up into her arms.” Voice cracking, I break into tears. “She said, ‘It’s going to be okay, baby’, and I looked over, and he had blood on his throat and all over his hands.”
“She got into her car, and she drove for miles, until she arrived here on this island. When she brought you to me, you still had his blood all over you. Uncle Hal and I took you in, and I washed it off and wrapped you in a blanket, just holding you while your mom broke down.” She sniffs and wipes the freshly fallen tears away, while mine sit trapped in a jiggling shield across my eyes. “She told me she had to leave you with me. And she made me promise to protect you. To never tell you who your father really is.”
She reaches out a hand, setting it on my arm, and as she grabs something from her purse that’s hanging off the edge of the chair and slides it in front of me, the tears finally break. All of my school pictures lay in a pile atop a large picture of my mom and me when I was small, maybe five years old. She’s smiling and pointing at the camera, her face healthy and lit up, framed by those fiery red locks.
“I gathered these this morning. From where she was camped under the viaduct. I’m no mother, so I’m certainly no expert on what makes a good, or bad mom. But one thing I know for sure is, she loved you. As much as a drug addict can love, she loved you.”
I finally break down and feel Aunt Midge’s arms wrap around me, drawing me into a hug. “I said horrible things to her. And now she’ll never know how sorry I am.”
“She knows, baby. She knows.”